Ideal Party

The parties I want to attend

Throw champagne in your face in disgust

Then scratch your car; and

They play something smooth like honey

On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist

Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.

No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage

to demean and offend the artistic upstart

who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.

You fall into the pool

And the ripples make the moon light dance

All around You. Then you stand in a dripping

Blue suit, smile, and walk out.

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Motel Blues

False cowboys take up motel rooms.

You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases

Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”

And you want to wave goodbye

To the ugly landscape. The person at reception

Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool

But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.

 

A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light

Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.

You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had

When he was seven and his father came home early.

 

Motel rooms scream secrets

But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,

The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207

Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,

The orange heat of the dawn sun

Coming through the blinds in the desert morn

Is as welcoming as any waterfall.

Average Day

Propulsion, speed, Opera

Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails

And the same gloves you slept in –

What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration

Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star

Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking

And screaming at the police for offences

Mismanaged. Work in the morning,

Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –

Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.

Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk

Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth

“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.

Writing for NME

It’s an aspiration,

Nay! A dream!

To destroy a hotel room

While my body is as weak as a guitar string

Left on a guitar by an 80 year old

Farmer who’s seen everything before.

But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing

Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking

(Attempting to do both at the same time)

Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart

With a fringe

And a paisley shirt

But the guy will have to call me and not give up

Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out

In glory.

Belle and Sebastian

Thank god Belle and Sebastian came along

To save Smiths fans in English classes in the 90’s

With sexual confusion and Nick Drake jangle

Pop fusion. What is it about wispy words and

Shambolic melodies of silvery pop, like carp

In a pond, that makes the heart start like

Kerouac’s car in a book not yet read?

 

It’s like the rain in Cambridge, or sun in Oxford

Where Wilde is king of the homesick

And the music pours like a quick gold fix of Shakespeare.

Plaid skirts and small cars on muddy lanes

And coffee dates under grey skies with scattered planes,

She’s got hair like Tina Weymouth, she writes in French,

Her eyes are a deep brown. She speaks like jazz,

Or a Mancunian in the slums. Her mother’s a nurse.

Goddamn, I’m in love. Time to Tipp-Ex those lines of

Cynicism that flow like waves in my notebook.

Fred Schneider

I let Fred Schneider into my house

And now we’re selling discount fish

At tourist prices but I suspect my house

Is haunted now and a constant fog

Drifts through it like London and the walls

Are damp and blue. We have problems with

Seagulls and men with hooks for hands in

Yellow cagoules. Jazz is banned to my chagrin.

Tai Chi is practiced by the dirty green bottles

That house our experiments. Hausu, what a film.

Summer is busy for us but the day trips to the bay

To gather more fish are always a treat.

This is not the Nouvelle Vague

You looked like you were about

To smoke until I remembered

You don’t but if you did you would

Look like Jean Seberg or Anna Karina

Or another French icon because

All the fashionable icons are French.

I’m not saying I’m Godard or Truffaut

But I’m definitely saying that I’m the artist.

Although, I don’t see an uprising sprouting

In Albert Square next to the library,

Even if it’s quasi Roman design sparks

Renaissance aspirations. Such revolutionaries

Would be quietly herded into the Costa nearby

Where they can watch the statues not move.

I got off track: the scene opens with a shot

Of the Eiffel Tower.